Thoroughly Deserving
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: On a special day, Bucky and Natasha make plans to celebrate. Well - Bucky makes plans. Natasha goes along with them. (Modern AU, mentions of PTSD and serious injury.)


**AN:** It's 3am. I did not plan to write this. I should not have written this. (No, seriously, I have plenty of other things I should have been doing). Am I sorry?

Fuck no.

Enjoy this pointlessly fluffy domestic crap, and please forgive any mistakes. Like I said - it's 3am; started this around 11pm and had to finish it, in the name of feels. Also, Sharon Carter makes an appearance, but because the tagging system on this site sucks I couldn't choose her without making this a crossover... :/

* * *

Thoroughly Deserving

If there was one thing in the world Natasha Romanov was a slave to, it was her alarm clock. Somehow, the innocent little device had become the master of her daily life, summoning her at will and allowing no rest despite her pleas. The dastardly thing had even broken its snooze button – to spite her, she was sure, after that one time she hit it hard enough to send it toppling to the floor. Its screech would only be silenced by a precise press on the 'off' button, and by precise, Natasha meant having to apply pressure on the right point for the right amount of time. There was no relief until then, and her suffering was only repeated the next day at the same time.

"Why don't you buy a new one?" James had grunted into his pillow once.

She could do that. "I might get complacent."

"Bullshit."

"You really want me using a snooze button again? That's twice the alarm in the space of a few minutes."

"You wouldn't have to use it."

"But the temptation would still be there. This one? Never going to happen." James grumbled something about the regular alarm never going to happen again and rolled onto his side. She'd only won because he was tired and it was his day off, and as she stood to stretch her back, Natasha was quietly relieved; he'd had a point about ignoring the snooze button, but by that logic she could use her phone. Or his, maybe, seeing as she'd had Tony hack into hers to purposefully disable the snooze feature (the day she'd broken her alarm's snooze button had made her realise it had happened for a reason). Regardless, losing a debate was a terrible way to start the day.

She showered and dressed quickly, eager to get some breakfast and check the news. The radio – her friend, so much kinder than her alarm – sung gently in the background, a singer-songwriter channel she'd found by accident after her last radio had decided she needed to hear nothing else and refused to change channel (James had won that debate). Natasha had been a reluctant listener at first, but when she found herself more relaxed in the mornings at work she'd given it more attention. The easy-going music was a nice way to ease in to the day, for both her and James, though he'd never admit it, and she was absently tapping her finger along as she read her tablet when he came out of their room, sweatpants on, hair sticking every which way.

"Did you sleep okay?" Natasha asked as he slipped his arms around her waist, his bare torso warm against her back.

"Mmh," was his answer as he nuzzled her hair. "Bit stiff."

She sipped her coffee, eyes still on her tablet. "Have you taken your pills yet?"

"No."

"Go take them." Swatting his forearm, she added a stern "Now," promising more sweetly to make him some toast.

He kissed her hair. "Peanut butter and jelly."

"Jelly and coffee," she compromised, ignoring his whine as he stepped away. He'd probably get it himself once she was gone anyway. With toast and coffee on the go she texted Sharon to confirm what they were going over that day, picked out a pot of pasta for lunch and double-checked she had money for coffee throughout the day, plating up James' toast right as he re-emerged from their room.

"You're the best," he groaned, eagerly reaching for his mug.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him when he winced, shaking her head fondly when he stuck his freshly-scalded tongue out unhappily. "I have to go," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Don't injure yourself further."

"Hey." He caught her arm as she was about to leave, turning her back around. "You ready for tonight?" he asked, guiding her closer and smiling that devastating half-smile of his.

"Well I don't know, seeing as I don't know what's actually happening tonight."

Chuckling, he said, "Just let me know if you're going to be late, please?"

"We're on a schedule, are we?" His lips stayed shut, and she sighed. "I'll call if it's going to be a problem."

With a grin, he bent down to kiss her. "Love you."

"You too. Take it easy today, but not –"

"Too easy, I know, and I won't. Promise."

* * *

The morning was fairly straightforward, although if you asked Sharon and Natasha, it was as dull as watching grass growing. There was a lot of paperwork and very little field work, with the first call coming in at only eleven thirty. "Hit and run on Weston and 39th," Fury informed the unit. "I want two teams down there with detectives Romanov and Carter – help CSI keep things running so they can do their job and interview any witnesses. Ambulance has already been dispatched."

"What happened to the exciting things?" Sharon complained as they filed out of the briefing.

Natasha gave her a look. "Hit and runs aren't exciting?"

"Today maybe," she snorted. "And not that I want this to be happening, but when was the last time we had to deal with something like an armed robbery? I mean, this town's not exactly New York, I know –"

"The last firearms incident was ten months ago."

She wasn't looking, but Natasha could feel Sharon's awkwardness. "Of course. Sorry, Nat, I didn't –"

"It's fine. He's fine." Collecting what they needed, she turned back to her partner. "So, would you rather a hit and run or a shoplifting incident?"

Sharon rolled her eyes. "When you put it like that…"

"Come on. Think about all the wonderful CCTV footage we get to trawl through later."

"If there's CCTV footage."

"Either way, we'll have some delightful statements to go through."

"Remember that lady we interviewed for the daylight break-in last month? With the purple headscarf and the tabby cat?"

"I still have cat hairs in that suit jacket."

"Same. I want someone like her to be there. Just to brighten things up." Natasha huffed a laugh, but agreed – a little bit of crazy might be needed to make the time pass quicker.

* * *

"What do you call a magic dog?"

Bucky was in a good mood. He'd slept fairly well, his arm was fine, and he had plenty of free time to work towards making this evening perfect. He wasn't even regretting asking Clint along to help him get the last few things. Yet. "I don't know."

"A Labracadabrador!"

He closed his eyes and sighed, biting back the smile that threatened to burst forth. "Just – go and get what I asked you to, will you?"

Grinning, Clint snickered as he went, turning back around after a few paces to shout back, "What if it's a French dog?" Bucky shrugged. "Le magichien!"

"I'm more impressed you know French!" He shook his head as Clint laughed loudly, and turned his attention back to the wine. There wasn't much to choose from – a few reds, a few whites, a rosé or two, but that didn't bother him. Wine was something both he and Natasha could appreciate when appreciation was due, but for tonight he knew something simple would suffice. He was hardly the world's best cook, and secretly feared that an expensive drink would make the food sub-par in turn, so the less fancy the better. With that in mind, he gave up trying to compare the labels and picked one that was neither pricey nor cheapskate, and found Clint on his way back from his errand.

"Okay, wine I understand," Clint said as they met in the aisle, "but these?" He held up the box in his hand. "What do you need these for?"

Bucky frowned at the box. "I don't," he said. "Why have you got fork handles?"

"'Cause that's what you asked for."

"No, I asked for four candles," and he held up four fingers to emphasise the point.

Clint blinked. "Oh." As he reached up to adjust one of his hearing aids Bucky sighed inwardly and turned him by his shoulder.

"Put those back and come and meet me by the candles," he instructed. "You got that?"

"Yeah, yeah, go jump through a metal detector," Clint griped, and Bucky snorted.

When Clint found him in the candle aisle again though, Bucky's plans had become slightly more complicated. "These weren't here last time," he muttered, picking up a thick, stripy candle in a jar. "What happened to the boxes of four?"

"Dunno, but these ones seem pretty cool. Ooh, is that vanilla?"

"Who needs all these different scents?" Bucky said, picking up another one and reading the label. "Mountain Lodge," he scoffed. "What the hell does a mountain lodge smell like?"

"Not a clue, but I know Lucky would love that Sea Breeze one."

"You are not buying your dog a scented candle." Clint stuck his tongue out, but Bucky was already back to deliberating. "Jesus. How do I know which one she'll like?"

His friend shrugged. "Just get one you think smells nice. I mean, you don't disagree on candle scents, do you?" Bucky gave him a look. "What? I'm just trying to help!"

"Much appreciated." He picked up one called Hot Chocolates, and weighed that up against Mountain Lodge. "Do I get three scents or one?"

"Three scents."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. That's almost three candles for the price of one. What are the individual smells?"

"Vanilla, chocolate, and cinnamon." He couldn't see anything wrong with any of those ones (at least he understood them better than 'mountain lodge'). "Alright, this one'll do."

"Great. We checking out?"

"Guess so."

"Awesome. Hey! What do you get if you cross a gold dog with a telephone?"

"… I don't know."

"A golden receiver!"

Bucky's hands were too full to facepalm.

* * *

Leaning back in her chair, Natasha let out a moan as her vertebrae cracked satisfyingly, digging the heel of her hand into her eyes as she returned her gaze to the paperwork. "How have we ended up with this much to do?"

"Beats me," Sharon said, head in one hand on her desk. "Although, the number of people willing to give us a statement, I don't know why we're so surprised."

Natasha hummed in agreement. "On the plus side," she said, "it looks like we might clock out on time today."

"Thank god for small mercies." Sharon looked over at her. "You got plans?"

"Dinner, I believe. You?"

"Take-out, PJs, ice cream and cheesy rom-coms," she grinned. "I've had this playlist set up for a long time now."

"Really?" Natasha asked, deadpan, and Sharon smiled.

"Trust me, it's a good list," she insisted. "And I'm getting classy take-out, not that god-awful slop we ordered last week."

The memory was enough to make Natasha cringe. "Don't remind me. I'd rather eat these statements than go anywhere near that excuse for chow mein again."

"Amen to that."

"Who doesn't like chow mein?" a voice from the door asked.

"Easy Chinesey, apparently," Natasha said, and Steve pulled a face.

"With a name like that, I'm not surprised." He handed over a file. "Close-ups of that license plate. Not the best quality, but we didn't expect to get anything, so…"

"Yay," Sharon chimed as she pulled out the images. "Well, at least that wraps up this one all nice and neat. We've got more than enough witness statements that match this vehicle's description too."

"Yeah, you guys looked swamped," Steve commented, and was suddenly pinned in place by two sets of matching stares. "Oh no. No no no."

"Please Steve?" Natasha pouted.

"We have important things to do tonight, and you are such a kind –"

"And considerate officer."

Leaning against the door frame, Steve folded his arms. "You know, I might have plans tonight too, actually."

Natasha smiled sweetly. "Steve. Everyone knows your barbershop quartet doesn't exist."

He caved five seconds later.

* * *

Anticipation made Natasha's heart beat a little faster than usual as she walked into the apartment that evening, and the smells coming from the kitchen area heightened that excitement. "Hey," she said as James, dressed in a smart black button-down shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up, came to greet her with a prolonged kiss.

"Hey yourself," he said, grinning like a teenager. "I should be ready in five minutes – is that enough time for you to change?"

"Of course." She tried to peek over his shoulder. "What are you making?"

"You'll see – just go change out of your work clothes. Something stunning," he insisted, steering her across the room by her shoulders.

"Stunning?" she echoed, throwing him a bemused glance.

"You're always stunning, I know." He could have that one, she decided, and closed the bedroom door behind her. Going by what he was wearing, she chose her dark red cowl dress (comfortable and 'stunning'), quickly changing and using the remaining time to touch up her make-up. Deeming herself suitably attired, she went to fish out the present she'd bought for him before stepping back out.

Natasha was pleasantly taken aback when she opened the bedroom door – in five minutes, James had somehow managed to dim the apartment lights to a subtle atmosphere without the space being too dark, plate up a dinner of beautiful looking steaks, pour some wine out, and was just lighting a candle in the centre of the table. He straightened as Natasha approached, hands behind her back, and his eyes widened as they soaked up the sight of her.

"Damn," he whispered, holding her reverently as she pressed in for a kiss. "Happy anniversary."

She smiled back at him. "Happy anniversary," she repeated, and revealed the little black box she'd been hiding.

He laughed in surprise, taking the gift from her and asking "May I?" She gestured for him to go ahead, and he opened it where they stood. "Oh, Nat, really?"

"I saw you eyeing them up in the store when Steve was choosing Peggy's ring," she admitted, smiling broadly at how happy he was with the cufflinks. The small, silver eagles would go nicely with any of his shirts, and the price was worth every penny if that was how pleased he was with them.

"Thank you," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing her temple, "so much."

"You're welcome, James."

"Yours is coming after dinner," he promised as they sat down to eat.

They chatted in the usual manner as they ate, each asking the other about their days. James was full of sympathy when Natasha told him about the massive paperwork trawl she and Sharon had endured, familiar with those kinds of days, and Natasha laughed unremorsefully as he told her about Clint's multitude of terrible dog jokes, something she had also experienced. They discussed bits of news they'd managed to glean throughout the day, plans to visit James' sister next week, and the fact that Steve and Peggy had finally secured a venue for their wedding.

"Sharon said Peggy's been pulling her hair out for weeks about that church."

"Yeah, I think Steve's been worn down by it, too."

"By the need for that particular venue, or by Peggy's need for that particular venue?" James huffed a laugh. Natasha noticed he was absently rubbing his left shoulder, and tipped her head inquiringly. "How's it been today?"

"Hm?" She tapped her own shoulder, and he glanced down at his, shrugging with the good one. "Not bad, actually. Felt like just one shot's stuck in there rather than seven down to the elbow."

"That's good," she said warmly. The good days were beginning to catch up in number with the bad days.

He nodded. "Yeah," he said slowly, "it has been."

"You should tell Doctor Banner," she suggested, sitting back with her wine. "He'd be pleased to hear of your progress." James nodded again, but his eyes slipped away, looking more uncertain. There were still nightmares, she knew (she had them too, would wake to the fading image of him with blood pouring out from more places than just his arm), and James would only truly see progress being made when he stopped waking up at least once a week; hearing that he was doing well from another person might, she hoped, make him start to believe that he was much, much better than he was ten months ago. As it was, she took his hand in hers across the table and squeezed lightly, stroking his knuckles as he blinked out of his reverie.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"Nothing to be sorry for."

He gazed at her then, the way someone who chased sunrises might at a particularly beautiful one, and Natasha ducked her gaze, cheeks warming at the attention. "Are you finished?" James asked softly, hand turned under hers, and when she said she was he lifted her fingers to his lips, standing to clear the table. "We can go whenever you're ready, then."

"Go where?"

He refused to give her an answer. She tried guessing as he fetched their coats, as they got into the car, as he drove them to the city centre, and right up until he parked in a lot not far from a building she was familiar with.

"Did you buy…?"

The ballet tickets were pulled from his trouser pocket, and he gave her a cheeky smile as she reached for them, moving his arm back. "Ah-ah – still a surprise!"

"James!" She smacked his chest as he laughed, then linked her arm through his and tugged impatiently. "Stop keeping me in suspense, or I take you down right here and attend without you."

"Okay, okay," he relented, calming himself down. "You really want to know?" A raised eyebrow conveyed the message. "It's a contemporary production of _The Nutcracker_. I looked online, it's got pretty good reviews, and you won't believe the seats I managed to grab."

" _The Nutcracker_?" It had been her favourite as a child (she'd seen it three Christmases in a row). "Oh, James, you –"

"I did," he said, silencing her with a finger over her lips, "because you, Natalia Alianovna Romanova, absolutely deserve this."

Natasha held his wrist, moving it so he cupped her cheek. "All I got you was cufflinks."

"And I love them," he told her, bending down to kiss her for emphasis. "Almost as much as I love you."

She rolled her eyes a little, smiling too much for the gesture to be anything other than fond. "You've been practising all these lines, haven't you?"

"Clint has his uses." Natasha laughed in agreement. He stepped back then, extending her his arm, and they wasted no more time in getting to the show.

* * *

"You know what?" Natasha murmured later in bed, curled against James' side, eyes closed against the feel of his fingers trailing along her shoulder.

"Mmh?" His chest was still rising and falling a bit harder than usual.

"Three years ago – and, maybe even ten months ago – I would never have believed I'd feel this happy."

Their room was in total disarray. A lamp had been knocked over; most of the trinkets on her draws were on the floor; one of James' shoes was missing; her bra had ended up in the en-suite; his shirt might be missing a few buttons; she would likely have to wash the bed sheets again in the morning, despite having washed them two days ago; but she meant what she said: three years ago, their relationship was brand new, and the first she'd allowed herself to accept in a long time. Ten months ago, James had been heavily traumatised, struggling with not only the fact that his arm was damaged beyond full repair but also the loss of the job they shared.

That was what was on his mind, it seemed, as he rolled over to encircle her with both arms, pulling her snug against him and burying half his face into the top of her head. "That's why you deserve it," he said, words muffled by hair and the onset of sleep. "For putting up with me all that time."

"The three years or the ten months?"

He shifted back a bit, angling his head down to rest their foreheads together. "All of it," he whispered. Natasha stroked his bicep, fingers brushing over the numerous scars where the doctors had been able to remove a few pellets, and James sighed deeply, pecking the end of her nose.

"Sleep well," she said, tucking herself closer.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Yes, until her alarm summoned her in the morning, Natasha was going to savour this feeling of happiness. After everything, she was in no doubt that they both deserved this.

* * *

 **AN:** As a magician who owns a Labrador, I highly approve of the Labracadabrador joke, and am now using it at any given opportunity. That means Clint is too. Also, the fork handles/four candles thing is probably a solely British joke, but I think it might work in American? Idk. And, as a small girl, I did go and see _The Nutcracker_ three years in a row at Christmas. Forever my fave.


End file.
